


Chasing the Soldier

by deep_marvel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins & Hitmen, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Detectives, Flirting, Groping, M/M, Mystery, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deep_marvel/pseuds/deep_marvel
Summary: It was infamous. There wasn’t a soul alive in New York City who hadn’t heard the whispers: Case No. 99: The Winter SoldierCall it obsessive, possessive – whatever, but Steve Rogers had called dibs. This one was his, and part of choosing a small agency had been in order to conduct his own investigations during downtime. However, it seemed as if he had chosen the agency too well.





	1. Brooklyn Brothers

 

“Just graduated?”

The man nodded, earnestly. He was internally regretting that he wore his best starched oxford as sweat collected uncomfortably in all the wrong places. Then again, it was the first agency to call him in for an interview and that had set off all kinds of _very_ necessary freak outs. He swiped his sweaty palms across his creased khakis. “Top of my class, sir.”

“Noted.”

He shut his mouth immediately, wondering if he was utterly bombing this interview. Peeking up at the sharp featured man sitting behind a rather impressive Cherrywood desk, he tried to figure out what that analytical gaze was seeking out.

Maybe it was more than numbers? He had plenty of exposure to the field as a student. Sure, he was never a big part of cases, but he had a working understanding of forensics, psychology, sociology, criminology – you name it and he had probably taken it. Perhaps he wanted more references? Mentally, he started counting off how many professors and employers could vouch for him. Somewhere about five people, he stopped himself and cleared his throat.

“Uhm…,” he spoke up again meekly, clasping his hands together in his lap to prevent anymore fidgeting, “Is there anything I can clarify for you?”

“Is there?”

He shrugged, helplessly.

Sighing, his interviewer set the resume down and gave him a long look. “It’s Steve, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You seem like a really bright kid, Steve,” the man began, leaning back in his leather chair, “but I honestly don’t understand why you’re selling yourself short by coming here.” His eyes darted back to the resume. “This is only a single page worth of achievements and I’m sure you could fill a dictionary with your accomplishments during your undergraduate degree. That’s not something most kids can do.”

Steve flushed, looking down. “I think you’re overestimating me, Mr. Wilson. I’m honestly just another person who sees injustice and wants to make some change.”

“With these credentials, why not do a Master’s Degree and become a supervisor for the police or FBI? What’s the point in choosing a lousy private investigation agency? One of probably hundreds in New York alone?” Mr. Wilson scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re a whack job if you think this is a good idea.”

Steve frowned, finally returning his interviewer’s gaze. “With all due respect, I’m allowed to make my own decisions and if my credentials are so good, then that probably means I know a thing or two about what I want.”

“You’re barely legal to drink, Steve. What you want changes with every bar.”

“That’s an attack on my character, not my abilities,” he responded evenly, getting to his feet. “If I’m that unsuitable, then I’ll just take my leave. Thanks for your time.” Steve reached for his resume, but the other man snatched it up.

“Hold on now, kid,” Mr. Wilson whistled, “you sure do have a short fuse. Private investigation takes a certain level of clear-headed thinking.” He smirked at Steve’s fallen expression. “That’s lesson one. Don’t let people rile you up, because that’s how you get screwed over.”

“So…does this mean…,” Steve trailed off, not wanting to hope.

The older man rolled his eyes. “Jeez, maybe this is a mistake. Whatever. I’ll deal with it if you’re a lousy employee.” Setting the resume in a filing cabinet, Mr. Wilson continued, “I still don’t think you’re doing what’s in your best interest, but I’m also not your mom so I have no say. You sound like you’ll be a good employee and if you can just redirect that hot temper of yours to solid investigation, I think we’ll be getting along just fine.” He flashed a brilliant smile at the star struck 22-year-old.

“T-Thank you.” Steve blinked, feeling like his body was floating. Suddenly, the sweating wasn’t so bad. In fact, he decided just then that this gross, overly starched oxford was his new favorite shirt.

“Don’t thank me yet. You’ve come in at a bad time.” Mr. Wilson’s expression darkened as he rummaged through the files for something different. A moment later he pulled out a thick folder. Tossing it onto the desk, he waved at Steve to come closer.

Opening it, the blonde man’s eyes immediately darted around the report. There were newspaper clippings, half-baked lawsuit applications, forensic photos… Steve shook his head, zeroing in on the name of the case.

It was infamous. There wasn’t a soul alive in New York City who hadn’t heard the whispers.

_Case No. 99: The Winter Soldier_

“Are you serious?” Steve muttered. “I feel like I’m not even allowed to be seeing this right now.”

“Well I got your background check this morning, so you’re legally allowed to be reading this,” Mr. Wilson responded dryly. “But I suppose you recognize this name?”

“Of course,” he stated firmly, looking up at his new boss. “I’m just wondering why this isn’t being handled by the NYPD. Or, better yet, the feds.”

He chuckled, “It still technically is being handled by both of them, but there’s a fuck ton of red tape that’s tying up their lines. I was contracted a few weeks ago by the feds to look into it from a more…covert direction.” Mr. Wilson flipped a page, revealing redacted documents. “But as you can see, they’re not exactly sharing everything with me. I’ve gathered some leads, but they’re conflicting and I need an extra pair of hands pronto.”

Steve was silently counting his lucky stars for applying to the Falcon Agency. How had he landed such a high profile job right off the bat? Even if it was a bit under the table, he would be tackling a notorious criminal fresh out of college. His ma up in heaven was probably throwing a banquet. “What can I do?”

Reaching into a desk drawer, Mr. Wilson withdrew a post-it note, pressing it into Steve’s hand. “ _This_ is one of two leads. I’m banking on your stellar resume to pull through for me tonight,” he grinned as the color drained from his new hire’s face. “Calm down, kid. I’m just fucking with you.”

“So I’m not actually going?” Steve chanced.

Mr. Wilson barked a laugh. “No. You’re still going.” He dropped his smile, nodding at the sticky note Steve was intently studying. “It’s the lower stakes lead of the two. All I need you to do is attend a charity auction hosted by Charles Xavier. I’m betting you know him as well?”

“I’ve heard of him,” he croaked, already getting jittery at the prospect of meeting one of the world’s greatest minds. What sort of connections did the Falcon Agency have?

“Great. It’s at his manor. I’ve given you directions. It’s a Black Tie event.” Mr. Wilson eyed Steve’s pants warily. “No khakis.”

“Got it.”

“No. I mean, ever again.”

***

Steve Rogers was on his phone the entire subway ride home. First, he reread the reviews for the Falcon Agency. It seemed like a pretty good place to start considering its low-key headquarters and rather recent history of formation. Steve knew going in that there were only two employees at the agency – Mr. Sam Wilson and Ms. Natasha Romanoff. No matter how much searching he did though, there was barely any information on them. That really should’ve been his first clue.

What sort of agency got to work on the _Winter Soldier_ case? Better yet, why were they enlisted by the federal government ahead of other agencies?

When his Googling came up with nothing else, he switched over to perusing recent articles on the Winter Soldier, as well as any reports on mysterious assassinations and disappearances. During college, he may have been mildly obsessed with this case. But who wouldn’t be if they wanted to get into the line of law and justice?

Steve fumbled off the subway as his stop came faster than he expected. The door slid shut soundly behind him. Glancing around warily, he curled his shoulders in and blended into the crowd as best he could. It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but what could he do? Money was tight, and he wasn’t trying to impress anyone with his home. It’s not like anyone ever came to visit.

Like Mr. Wilson had pointed out, it was only sensible to go for higher education. Steve’s classmates had done just that while being flabbergasted by his adamant choice to join the private investigation sector. Most of his professors had tried to convince him otherwise, but their reasons were never enough.

He needed the money as soon as possible. There were bills to pay and a world to save. Why did he have to sit through another year of classes just to get a shiny degree and a nicer nameplate? In the end, they were all fighting for the same thing, and his rank was of little interest. Steve had long since come to terms with the fact that he hated paperwork and a desk job. Being a field agent was far more appealing.

And so what if he was bad at taking orders? With a small agency like Mr. Wilson’s, Steve had a hunch he could get away with a lot more.

Jiggling the lock on his door, he jammed the key in, twisted, and shoved his shoulder against the rickety wood. It groaned open, as if angry for being disturbed. Steve eyed the hinges, figuring no amount of Armor All would ever smooth them out. Sighing, he shut the door hard, forcing the deadbolt into place. Honestly, the wood was rotting, so no matter how steely his locks looked, they weren’t being set into the sturdiest structure.

Blue eyes swept the studio apartment, seeking out any irregularities. The small stove and sink were old but clean. His bed (a mattress in the corner) was neatly made with soft jersey sheets and stacks of microfiber blankets. He kept a comforter in his storage unit for the winter, but seeing as it was still early summer, he hardly needed the extra weight. A large, arched window poured sunlight in, creating little sparks where it hit the chain of his punching bag in the corner. It further illuminated the centerpiece of his home: a wall filled with newspaper clippings, conspiracy articles, photos, handwritten notes…all about the Winter Soldier.

Mildly obsessed was probably an understatement.

Steve loosened his tie, gazing up at the wall of shame – or spectacular investigative wall of pride (really, it depended on who was talking).

More than any of the financial issues or social justice warrior tendencies, Steve knew deep down that he wanted to solve the Winter Soldier case more than anything else. If he stayed in school for another year, there was a strong chance _someone_ would figure out the mystery before him.

Call it obsessive, possessive – whatever, but Steve Rogers had called dibs. This one was his, and part of choosing a small agency had been in order to conduct his own investigations during downtime. However, it seemed as if he had chosen the agency _too_ well.  

The Winter Soldier (often shortened to the “Soldier”) had been dubbed as such a year and half ago by the New York Times. It was published after a glimpse of his muzzled face was caught on camera atop a snowy rooftop in mid-December. Since then, not a single photographer had been able to snap another photo of the elusive criminal. Steve had blown the image up and compared it to multiple other sources, artistic recreations, and potential suspects’ head shots. None of them were very telling, though.

Dark, shoulder-length hair, heavy goggles, and a muzzle were the only discernable features, which wasn’t saying much at all. The glint of a sniper rifle pressed to a hulking shoulder only confirmed how assassinations were conducted.

Steve turned away from the photo, skimming over the very first article about the now infamous Soldier. It was printed in the first week of October when he was a sophomore in college. There had been a buzz that day, particularly among his professors and major mates. A foreign diplomat was found in his office, a bullet hole between unseeing eyes.

They had chatted solemnly about the incident, but after a few days, the incident was forgotten. Another two weeks passed, and then another finely suited, high ranking government official was cleanly executed. This time, the bullet had shattered their car window, lodging itself in the side of his head. It was an instant kill.

Steve had taken a morbid interest in those two incidents, seeking out more and more information on similar cases. It eventually culminated in a solid final project for his Criminal Analysis course, but it didn’t stop there. He had delved into the mind and methods of an apparent phantom killer. Furthermore, his professor had called him into his office shortly upon returning for the spring term, and told him point blank: “This is good shit, Rogers.”

The praise had only spurred on his interest. His fascination. His desire to unravel the string of murders and disappearances. The Soldier had only been formally credited for assassinations, but Steve was 99% sure that the assassin’s skillset and jobs extended far beyond mere murder.

What convinced him was a more recent kidnapping case. Six months ago, the Senator of Georgia was thrown into a whirlwind of media attention when his son disappeared. A normal case of kidnapping was already tragic, but this one was a whole different story. His son had taken a weekend trip up to their mountain villa, smartly bringing a handful of guards with him. Any politician would be wary of travelling in the midst of the Winter Soldier’s recent string of government assassinations. When Monday morning passed and not a word had been heard from the villa, the Senator had sent for authorities to check it out.

Not a single window or door was out of place. The hinges slid silently and the lock held. When they got inside though, it was an image of silent carnage. Overturned chairs and cracked support beams joined the five lifeless bodies sprawled around the interior. Not a trace of the Senator’s son could be found, though.

Most people were alarmed and distracted by the motive for taking the son, but Steve had been caught by the deaths of the guards. Released photos showed that each one had died from headshots placed with machine-like precision. In fact, Steve vaguely wondered if the property damage inside was to throw off the trail of investigators. Without those details, each death had been executed with such accuracy and style that it could have only been one person.

_The Soldier._

Steve glanced at the time. Cursing, he turned away from the wall of clues to start rummaging through the closet. The only nice things he owned were clothes, and that was a purposeful decision. No one needed to know he lived only slightly better than a squatter. Physical appearance was a large part of earning respect, and if he had to spend his extra funds on fashionable clothing, then the only thing judging was his conscience.

Unzipping a protective suit covering, he tugged out a dry cleaned tuxedo. It had cost him more than he would ever admit, but the investment was worth it. Steve had a feeling it would be getting even more use with this new job. And if he was wrong, Tony always had random functions he wanted Steve and the squad to attend.

 _6:00PM, already?_ He sniffed at himself, deciding maybe it was worth grabbing a quick shower before heading off to an event hosted by _the_ Dr. Charles Xavier. The man was brilliant beyond compare and Steve would be mortified showing up smelling like the New York City subway station.

***

It was half-past seven when Steve rolled up to possibly the largest estate he had ever seen. He would even dare to say it was larger than Stark’s main house. God, why was he friends with someone who had more than one home? Steve bristled at the thought, but pushed it back as he gave the gate guard his name.

The large man eyed his motorcycle suspiciously. “Your father didn’t send you in something a little more…enclosed?”

Steve unclipped his helmet, flashing a grin. “No, sir. It’s a nice night for a bike ride.”

“You’re gonna lose your head, son,” he warned, finding Steve’s name on the guest list and checking it off. “I’ve seen too many kids like you go flying over guardrails.”

“Got no one at home to identify my body, anyway, sir.” He gave the stunned guard a quick nod before rolling through the gates and up the driveway, following signs for the valet.

A young man, possibly in his mid-twenties, waved at him from a podium off to the side of the main entrance. Steve came to a stop in front of him, taking off the dark helmet and popping the storage pack open. He shrugged off his leather jacket, exchanging it for a suit jacket, and swiftly tossed his gear into storage before passing off the keys to the valet. “Careful,” Steve said, looking at the other man who seemed far too excited about parking a motorcycle, “my baby can be a little touchy with strangers.”

“I like ‘em feisty,” he winked as Steve slipped him a few bills. “Have a good night, Mr. Rogers.”

He wasn’t sure was surprised him more. The man’s confidence or the fact that he knew Steve’s name. Either way, he wasn’t going to be getting any answers _and_ he was already half an hour late to this event. Normally, showing up late was fashionable, but not when he was supposed to be conducting a covert investigation. Every minute and observation counted.

Steve internally reprimanded himself as he hopped up the steps, politely nodded at the doormen, and entered the slickest shindig he could recall attending. Everywhere his eyes fell, there were gorgeous faces, intoxicating colognes and perfumes, and tinkling glasses of wine and champagne.

“Drink, sir?”

He shook himself, glancing over at the server who presented a round black tray of filled champagne flutes. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking one only to give the appearance of a participating guest. Steve took a fake sip, just enough for the sparkling liquid to wet his lips.

Keeping eyes on the crowd, he did a slow turn about the room, keeping close to the perimeter while he let his ears pick up on various conversations. Most everyone kept it polite and focused on the charity auction. Steve let his gaze wander to the paintings and sculptures filling a large room branching off the main hall. Joining the stream of people entering the gallery, he quickly noted the dimmed lights and individual spots illuminating individual pieces.

“This is a private collection donated by an old friend of mine.”

Steve nearly jumped, swiveling around to see Charles Xavier beside him. The older gentleman had his hands folded over his lap, sharp black tuxedo standing in contrast to the crisp silvers and whites of his wheelchair. “H-Hello. Hi. Uh,” he fumbled for more words, wide eyed and slightly overwhelmed.

“Sam Wilson told me about you, Steven Rogers,” Dr. Xavier remarked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I trust that you’ll do your utmost to help us.”

“I’m not even really sure what I’m looking for,” he admitted softly, shoving his free hand into a pocket. Steve didn’t chance the Soldier appearing in his goggled and muzzled glory with a sniper rifle slung over a shoulder. “It’s my first day on the job.”

“A new experience doesn’t necessitate failure,” he assured gently. “Besides, just like you, I am also unsure why this event might be…of interest to such a person.” Dr. Xavier rolled slightly away from the painting they had stopped in front of, as if admiring it for the first time in detail. “It really is a lovely work, don’t you think?”

Steve gave it a look, tracing the lines and colors with a practiced eye. “For the style, I think it’s very appropriate.”

A spark of interest lit the professor’s face. “Do you have an investment in the fine arts, Steven?”

He flushed, bringing the flute of champagne up to his lips as if trying to hide. “A bit. I debated for a long time between studying art or criminal justice. You can guess which one I settled on in the end.” Steve cracked a smile, peering down at his companion.

Dr. Xavier was smiling back at him, seemingly with approval. “It’s good to keep your horizons broad, Steven. Who knows when an artistic eye might save you?” he chuckled and pulled away from the painting. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. I will be around should you need anything.” With that, he was swept away by the crowd, immediately met by several different people vying for his attention. None of them gave Steve a second glance.

Shuffling out of the gallery, Steve found his way to the open French doors leading out to the terrace. He set the drink down on a side table before leaning over the thick stone railing. Cool air rushed over his face, feeling like a godsend against his sweating neck. That goddamn bowtie was starting to feel more like a choker. Tugging at it gently, Steve let his eyes idly sweep over the garden below.

Fairy lights had been woven through the bushes and trees, warming the dark of the night. Steve pushed away from the edge, looking around for the stairs. If anything was going to happen, it would be from the outside. He might as well get a lay of the estate. In fact, he probably should’ve asked Dr. Xavier for a map. _You’re doing great, hotshot._

Steve rolled his neck, already exhausted by his own incompetence. What if he came up with nothing? Worse yet, what if he let the Soldier slip out from right under his nose? He was almost positive Mr. Wilson wouldn’t be paying him for the night’s work.

His shoes scuffed the stone and dirt path as the chirp of crickets slowly began overpowering the hum of string instruments weaving a tune through the main hall. There were tons of looming trees that only grew more concerning with the thickening forest. This estate was clearly a lot larger than he had originally been awed by. What seemed like a quaint garden had evolved into the woods and Steve was beginning to see how this could be an ideal event for the Soldier to crash.

Following the looping trial with eyes on everything but what was ahead definitely hadn’t been a good idea, though. Steve skidded to a halt right before he ran face first into a couple pressed back against a tree trunk. His initial reaction was judgment. For god’s sake, they were at _Charles Xavier’s_ home. There were certain parties where you didn’t run off to get frisky with a lover.

“Excuse me,” Steve muttered, backing up and getting a better look at the pair. His next reaction was one of surprise as the woman pushed away from her male companion and scurried off without a word, disappearing around another bend in the path. Well, at least one of them was modest.

“Sorry,” a deep voice drawled.

Steve shivered, but blamed it wholly on the chilly wind. Turning to face the man still leaned back against the tree, he immediately registered arctic blue eyes set into a face made of angles. An expressive set of lips were crookedly curled into a grin. The stranger’s dark hair was heavily mussed, strands sticking up every which way.

He attempted to fix it with a gloved hand, something akin to shame crossing his handsome features. “I am really sorry, man. I don’t really know how that happened.”

“How much have you had to drink?” he crossed his arms, concern lining his face.

The stranger seemed startled, but his expression quickly melted into one of easy confidence. “Enough to get lucky, huh?”

Steve snorted. “Right.”

He barked a laugh, kicking away from the tree. “What about you? Not many people would choose to wander the dark and creepy forest over mingling with Charles Xavier.” There was a certain quality to his voice that itched at Steve. It felt familiar.

“I chatted with the man for a few minutes. I think I can die happy with that.” It hit him then, eyes widening with realization. “You from Brooklyn?”

“You, too?” the stranger exclaimed, breaking into another round of hearty laughs. “No way. Who would’ve thought I’d find a fellow brother so far from home? What’s your name, Brooklyn?”

Steve felt himself smiling. “Steve Rogers. You?”

“James Barnes, but friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky it is then,” he returned.

“Who said we were friends, punk?” There was a bright glimmer of amusement in his eyes though, as if this conversation was one of the most thrilling he had ever experienced.

Steve was almost positive this man was so sloshed that a firefly would be just as entertaining to him. “Sorry for assuming, jerk.” He nodded back toward the now distant manor. “Whether or not we’re buddies, I still don’t feel good about letting a tipsy fella wobble back alone in the dark.”

“You’re gonna make me blush, Stevie-boy,” Bucky jovially slapped a hand against the blonde’s back, the warmth of his fingers lingering for a beat too long. “Alright, I’ll let you escort me. Maybe we’ll be good friends by the time we get back to civilization.” He smirked, keeping an arm slung around Steve’s broad shoulders.

At that proximity, he was mildly surprised to find how comfortably Bucky was able to keep an arm around him. Solid muscle pressed against the back of Steve’s neck and weighed heavily atop him. Even for someone who regularly worked out, it would’ve been unreasonable to actually _feel_ cords of muscle beneath the multiple layers of a tux. “My father was in the army, too,” Steve remarked casually, testing the waters. “He gave his life in service.”

Bucky blinked, turning his head and gracing the world with another gorgeous smile. “Oh? You remember his unit?”

“107th Infantry Regiment—” Steve had barely gotten the words out before Bucky was practically shouting.

“There’s no way! You’re fuckin’ with me, Stevie.” He shoved him playfully, practically vibrating in his clothes. “I was in the 107th, too.”

Now Steve was wide-eyed and surging with disbelief. “You gotta be messing with me. That’s too big of a coincidence.” He felt a laugh bubble up, “You’re just trying to charm me, Buck.”

“I would never,” he swore earnestly, thousand-watt grin lighting up the night. “But I’ll be. How have we never crossed paths before?” They exchanged stories about growing up in Brooklyn, trying to figure out where and when they may have met. The longer they spoke, the clearer it became that they had missed each other by a hair for about two decades.

By the time they were climbing the terrace steps, they were holding onto each other, laughing so hard their ribs ached. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he had so much fun just _chatting_ with another person. From what he could tell, Bucky was in a similar boat as the man wiped tears from the corner of an eye.

 “So what brought you to this auction in the first place?” Steve asked as they caught their breaths, not wanting to re-enter polite society while red-faced and gasping for air.

“This and that,” Bucky shrugged, non-committal.

“Suddenly got secrets to keep from a fellow brother?” Steve teased.

“We all got secrets, Brooklyn,” he smirked. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.” The way his gaze dragged over the blonde suggested far more than a professional interest, though.

Heat crept back up Steve’s face. “Eyes front and center, Barnes,” he joked, meeting Bucky’s gaze challengingly.

A soft groan rumbled up from his broad chest as he watched Steve. “Playing hard to get after all the good times we’ve had, Rogers?” Bucky took a step toward him, leaning forward until they were cheek-to-cheek. “Lucky for you, I _love_ the chase.”

Steve finally understood what it felt like when muscles and bones turned to jelly. He didn’t think it was actually possible, but there he was, staggering back and gripping the railing for support. Lifting his eyes back up, he warily noted Bucky’s smug expression. “You’re a real jerk, you know that Buck?”

The man just laughed, head thrown back.

It only lasted a moment before the glass windows in the main hall shattered, and shrill screams devoured their evening.

 


	2. Shots Fired

 

Steve felt his body being slammed into the cool stone terrace, jaw rattling as a heavy body curled over his. There was a roar of voices, clattering, and shattering as people dropped everything and ran for any available exit. He braced himself for the storm of heels and loafers that would come tromping over him, but nothing came.

As he focused in on his immediate surroundings, he finally heard a low, urgent voice delivering crisp orders. “—Not a soul through to the terrace, Gabe.” A pause. “Dernier and Monty, sweep the perimeter.” Pause. “Jim, are the authorities on the way? …Good.” Another pause. Chuckle. “Dugan, is everyone evacuating? …Okay, report when everyone is out.”

Slowly, Bucky peeled himself off of Steve, letting the man gasp in the first lungful of air he had taken in probably three minutes. “What the hell happened?” the blonde man croaked, eyes darting around as he stood up.

A steely grip enclosed his wrist. “Stay down. The shooter may still be here.” Bucky’s expression was hard, strong jaw set. When Steve refused to be pushed back down, the dark haired man gave him an irritable tug.

Surprised by the force, Steve crashed back to his knees, falling sideways into a solid chest. “I appreciate the warrior-bred protection I’m getting,” he began dryly, pushing away from Bucky, “but I’m a goddamn grown man. I don’t need to be told what’s dangerous and not.”

“Clearly that isn’t _true_ , considering you were about to storm the fucking dance hall,” he shot back, grip tightening around Steve’s arm.

“If there are people in danger, then I should go help—”

Another shot.

Steve cursed loudly as he felt Bucky throw himself on top of him again. “Jesus, Buck!” he gasped, pretty positive all of tonight’s bruises would be due to one James Barnes.

“If you’d just keep your pretty head _down_ , I wouldn’t have to tackle you ever goddamn second!” he hissed, physically perching himself on Steve’s lower back, one hand on the back of his thighs and the other on the back of his neck.

The blonde man thrashed uselessly, growing increasingly frustrated at his immobility. “Are all military personnel built like tanks?” Steve shouted indignantly.

Bucky was ignoring him then, speaking into his comm-unit again. “Location of the second shot?” Pause. “Monty, Dernier, are there any active explosives? …Okay. Sweep the gardens. Based on the entry point of both bullets, you’re looking at the southeastern quadrant.” Pause. “Jim, anymore casualties? …Good, keep it that way.”

“Was someone shot?” Steve blurted, wriggling around under his apparent captive. “I need to know if someone was shot!”

“Are you a doctor or something?” Bucky cocked a brow, but the blonde couldn’t see him.

Silence. Steve let out a huff that shook his entire body. “…No.”

“Then you don’t gotta know nothin’, Brooklyn.”

“Fuck you.”

Bucky sighed, staring down at the back of a fine head of hair. His black gloves stood in such stark contrast to the pale flesh. His eyes trailed down to his other hand which remained firmly pressed down on two strong thighs. A glint of mischief lit handsome features. “With these legs, I bet you could fuck _real_ well, Stevie.” He slid his hand slightly higher, giving one of Steve’s upper thighs a teasing squeeze.

He yelped, muscles clenching immediately under the touch.

The dark haired man laughed, despite knowing that he shouldn’t be flirting right then (even if the object of his affections was the real life Adonis).

“If you’re gonna start groping me, then I’m gonna assume this isn’t such a dire situation and you can definitely get the hell off of me,” Steve ground out, starting to struggle again.

Bucky leaned more of his weight on the strong, yet narrow waist beneath him. “Yep, not happening, Stevie. You’re a spitfire and I don’t believe for even one second that you’re not going to rush in there and try to save people.”

“I can handle it! You don’t even know me.”

“I’m getting to know you pretty well right now.” Bucky considered squeezing that toned thigh for emphasis, but decided against it. It probably would’ve done more harm than good at this stage.

Steve whined, sounding earnestly distressed.

Softening slightly, Bucky let up on his neck – just enough so that mop of mussed blonde hair could reveal half of a grumpy, gorgeous face. “If you tell me why you’re so hell-bent on getting a piece of the action, I’ll consider letting you up,” he offered.

“I want all or nothing. You don’t get to know my secrets without revealing your own.” Steve bit back stubbornly.

“Let me give you some advice,” Bucky began, mouth twitching up in a wry smile, “when someone has got you literally pinned to the ground, face down, you are in no position to negotiate.”

_Sarge, all guests have been evacuated. NYPD has arrived with back up. Erik Lehnsherr didn’t make it. No other injuries have been reported. Shooter is still unknown._

“What about Charles Xavier?”

_Dr. Xavier was among the first to be evacuated. He’s secure_

Click. “Gabe, is the interior secure?”

_Affirmative, Sarge. The second bullet nicked a chandelier, but otherwise lodged itself in the ceiling. No injuries._

“Come to the terrace. I have a civilian who needs to be evacuated.” He glanced down at Steve who had gone rigid beneath him.

Click. “Monty, Dernier, have you found anything?”

_We might be lost in the woods. This estate is fucking huge._

Bucky sighed. “Where are you? I’ll come meet you.” He looked up as Gabe opened the French doors, a handgun still tensely gripped in one hand. Climbing off of Steve, he began to offer his hand, but instead felt a burst of pain ricochet up through his jaw and rattle about in his skull. He staggered back, holding his face.

Fire burned through those pretty ocean blue eyes, blonde hair falling across his slightly red forehead. “Asshole,” Steve snapped, his fingers still clenched into a fist. He shouldered past a stunned Bucky toward the open terrace doors.

Gabe gave his commander a sheepish look. “Damn, Sarge. Never seen you get rejected like that.”

“Go after him,” Bucky half-growled, half-sighed. Gingerly working his jaw, he took the steps two at a time back into the garden.

***

Steve wasn’t sure if he was flattered, flustered, or offended. It was probably a mix of all three. People didn’t manhandle him – not anymore at least. There had been a large chunk of his childhood where all he did was get pushed around by bigger guys. However, all of that changed after he hit his growth spurt and packed on muscle as part of his personal training regime to become an effective field agent.

And how the _hell_ did Bucky manager to hold him down like that? He knew the guy was built and battle hardened, but that didn’t explain how inhumanly strong his grip felt. Steve was positive there would be bruises where the man had squeezed his leg. Thigh. Whatever.

“Sir…sir…sir!” A hand caught his shoulder, slowing him down. Steve blinked, focusing in on the stranger’s face. “Sarge told me to escort you, and I’m gonna have to do as I’m told.” Gabe gave him a once over, scoffing. “But just looking at you, I feel like maybe you’d do a better job of protecting me than the other way around.”

Steve flushed, cracking a small smile. Alright, here was a normal person. “Sorry. Wait, who’s ‘Sarge’?”

“Uh…the guy that was sitting on you.”

“Bucky. He’s Sarge?”

“Right.” Gabe nodded slowly, unsure if this was a trick question or something. He followed Steve through the evacuation tunnel. “If you know Sarge’s nickname, does that mean he told you what we do?”

“He was pretty tight-lipped,” Steve responded flatly, clearly still annoyed.

Giving a sympathetic smile, Gabe explained, “Sarge, or well, Bucky, can be touchy about weird things. We were hired to run security for this event. …based on the current circumstances, I wouldn’t recommend you use us for future affairs.”

Steve laughed before he knew it was happening. Covering his mouth, he shot Gabe an apologetic look. The other man just cackled though, visibly relieved that the tense atmosphere was fading. “So, let me get this straight, Bucky is a private guard for hire and you guys are his team?”

“Something like that,” Gabe replied, brows drawing together as he thought about a better way to explain it. “It’s more like Sarge runs the company and we’re his execs. This particular event was an exception because Dr. Xavier requested the Howling Commandos, specifically.”

“…Howling Commandos?”

The look Steve received was one of exhaustion. Gabe just shook his head. “Nope. That is too long of a question to answer. Look, we’re already here.” He pointed toward the end of the tunnel were people were shuffling around with security blankets wrapped around them. “Alright…what’s your name?”

“Steve,” he fumbled over his words, adding, “Rogers. Steve Rogers. Thanks for the help…name?”

“Gabe Jones, sir,” he grinned brightly, saluting as he turned back toward the tunnel. “By the way, Steve, if Sarge calls on you again, make sure to yes. He’s a lonely guy, and it looks like he might wanna take you out sometime!”

Steve felt heat all the way to the tips of his ears. Gabe’s laughter echoed down the tunnel as he disappeared around a bend. He stared after him, unsure what to make of their brief conversation. It seemed like Bucky and the other security personnel were a lot closer than just co-workers. And what the hell were the “Howling Commandos”?

Voices flooded in around him and he finally took in his surroundings. Charles Xavier was speaking calmly with a police officer, but the pallor of his face gave away that something was awry.

“I can’t believe how it happened…”

Steve perked up at the sound of gossip. He inched closer to a group of people huddled together.

“He was doing something good…and that bullet just flew out of _nowhere_.”

Resounding agreements came and faded.

“What happened?” Steve blurted, looking around at the tired faces. They seemed bewildered at his confusion so he quickly added, “I was out in the gardens when the shots were fired.”

A woman spoke up, keeping her manicured fingers tight around the soft blanket draping her shoulders. “Erik Lehnsherr, the person who donated all of the art tonight, was giving a speech about how he was inspired to run this auction with Dr. Xavier, when the bullet—” she choked on her words, turning away.

Steve didn’t need to hear the rest. It was obvious what had happened. He ground his teeth together. If only he hadn’t been playing around as if he really was there as a guest. Tonight was a _job_. Mr. Wilson had entrusted this lead to him and he had failed.

Peering around, he caught sight of a body bag that was open and being examined by a forensics team. He crept up behind them, taking a quick glance at the deceased Mr. Lehnsherr. Trying to ignore the gruesome splatter of blood, bones, and matter, he took swift notice of the bullet’s entry point. It had pierced the side of his skull, exiting diagonally right below his ear. The steep angle implied a rather high vantage point for the shooter.

Stepping away from the group, Steve made his way back to the evacuation tunnel.

***

Bucky Barnes never imagined being decked by a Greek God aka Brooklyn Punk aka Steve Rogers. It stung like a fucker, but on an emotional level, he almost felt awed. Maybe he was secretly a masochist. Shaking the thought away, he dropped the hand which had been continuously cupping his swollen jaw.

“Sarge!”

He turned around, seeing Monty and Dernier clambering out of some bushes. They looked rough, not the worst Bucky had seen them, but pretty damn close. “What the hell happened?” he demanded with a suppressed grin. When his lips stretched too far, the ache in his jaw turned sharp.

“Sorry, boss,” Monty shrugged, tugging some leaves out of his hair with one hand, the other firmly gripping a handgun. “Place is big.”

“Did you locate where the bullets came from?”

Dernier shook his head. “We headed southeast like you said, but there was nothing there. We would’ve looked further, but by the time we finished picking through the brush, we couldn’t figure out where the hell we were.”

Bucky frowned. He would’ve sworn on his life that the shooter posted themselves in that direction. What was off about his calculations? “Okay, do you two know how to get back to the mansion?” They nodded, so he continued, “Ask Dr. Xavier for copies of the security footage. Report when you get them and I’ll meet you.”

“Sir.” They saluted sharply, jogging off down the unlit path.

Perplexed, Bucky headed deeper into the garden-turned-forest, looking for any signs of human. There were no footprints, abnormal tree marks – not even a snapped twig. He had no idea which direction Dernier and Monty had come from, but clearly they hadn’t taken this path. It was strange to find absolutely nothing touched in this quadrant, when there had clearly been a shooter not half an hour ago.

The trees had gotten so high that the mansion disappeared from the skyline. Bucky understood then how his two trusted Commandos got lost. It didn’t even look like he was near civilization anymore.

After several more minutes to trekking, Bucky was about ready to call it quits on his semi-blind search. Normally, he was one of the best trackers among his men, but this was ridiculous. He felt like he was chasing a phantom. Just as that thought crossed his mind, he heard trees rustling beside him.

Pressing back against a trunk, he peered over one shoulder, breath halting as he waited for further movements. Maybe the shooter was still around? That would be just his luck. No back-up and a constricting suit were definitely not ideal and all those James Bond movies were liars. Bucky glared into the darkness, making out a large shape gingerly picking through the non-existent walking path.

They looked unarmed. Bucky also couldn’t sense any killing intent. Relaxing minutely, he followed the person as they continued climbing through the thick vegetation, some of their steps graceless. He counted the stranger tripping or catching on a tree more than once.

Suddenly, the figure stopped, head tilting back. Bucky huddled against a tree again, frowning as the person did nothing for what felt like hours. Just as quickly as they stopped, the person was abruptly shrugging out of their jacket and rolling sleeves up. Now Bucky was definitely confused.

With a massive leap, the person caught a low hanging branch, swinging themselves until their feet snagged on the rough bark. If not for the darkness, their contorted body probably would’ve looked pretty funny. Bucky watched with interest as the stranger climbed higher and higher until the only indication that they were still in the tree was an occasional rattling and squawking of disturbed night creatures.

A minute passed.

And then another.

Bucky stared up into the now silent tree, expecting his prey to emerge any second.

A small light snapped among the leaves.

Frowning, he slipped out of his hiding place and glared up at the tree. Okay. So this probably wasn’t the smartest thing he had ever done, but it seemed necessary given the circumstances. What if it was the killer coming to reclaim their weapons? Bucky couldn’t pass that up, and if things took a violent turn, all he had to do was shove the guy out of the tree.

Nodding to himself, he swiftly climbed the tree, internally smug that he was smoother than his prey. Bucky guessed it was about halfway up the trunk when he caught sight of blonde hair. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Brooklyn!” Bucky shouted, “What are you…doing…” his eyes trailed over to the sniper rifle strapped to the branch. It was high-grade with the trigger hooked up to an apparent timer.

Wordlessly, Bucky swung himself up onto the branch beside Steve who scooted aside to make room. Leaning over the weapon, the dark haired ex-soldier grimaced and tapped his comm-unit. “Howlies, I found something. Report to my location ASAP.”

After a beat of silence, Steve mumbled, “You said southeastern quadrant earlier.” He fidgeted like a guilty schoolboy. “I couldn’t leave it like that. I needed to see for myself if there was something still here.”

“You’ve got one wild curiosity streak, punk,” Bucky growled, eyeing the rifle warily. So the shooter hadn’t even been here. They could’ve set this up hours ahead of time and been gone from the scene of the crime. Reluctantly, he added, “But my men couldn’t find this. I guess I owe you thanks for locating this.”

Steve’s glum expression eased a bit, bright blue eyes turning to Bucky. “I verified the entry point based on Erik Lehnsherr’s wounds. The entry and exit wounds suggested a pretty steep shot. From there, I just started searching for the highest trees in the southeastern region of the garden.”

Handsome, built, _and_ brilliant. Fuck, Bucky didn’t know what to do. Rubbing his face tiredly, he shot Steve a disapproving frown. “Just because that is possibly the best deduction made tonight, I’m not encouraging your reckless behavior. In fact, I should probably report you on the grounds of being a stupid punk.”

The blonde slumped slightly, looking very much like a kicked golden retriever. “I heard your company was hired for security detail tonight. I’m sorry for punching you. It was clearly just you doing your job.” His lips pressed together suddenly, brows knotting indignantly. “Wait…if you were on duty, why were you flirting around with some woman?”

Bucky winced. “I already told you I barely remember how I got there!”

“You were _drinking_ while working, too?” The judgment was a little too real in his voice.

Getting defensive, he snapped back, “You just assumed that! I never explicitly said I was doing anything.”

“And what about groping me? Is that part of security detail as well?” Steve demanded.

Bucky blushed, but his expression quickly morphed into a feral smirk. Humming softly, he inched closer to the wary blonde. “I was just making sure your body was secure.”

“Oh shut up,” he huffed, shoving Bucky back by the shoulder. “That was so cheesy.”

They argued mindlessly over the sniper rifle, pointing fingers and letting their Brooklyn accents surface with each jab. It was no more than five minutes before bright searchlights shined up into the tree and Dum-Dum Dugan’s voice bellowed up to them.

It took longer to climb down, especially with the heavy rifle slung over Bucky’s shoulder. Steve had taken to carrying the array of wires and accessories which strapped the rifle to the automated timer the tree, itself.

Bucky would look up periodically, grinning at the sight of Steve’s perfect behind just a few feet above him. The two times he was caught staring, Steve chucked an acorn at him. He only managed to dodge the second one.

He landed softly on the ground, showing his team the remains of their shooter. Steve came down a moment later, holding up the various attachments for viewing. They explained what little they knew about the sniper set-up, passing around digital photos taken with their phones. Bucky had just finished describing what he saw firsthand as well as how Steve (“this punk-ass” as he put it) found the location after looking at the victim’s wounds.

“Gabe, didn’t I tell you to watch him?” Bucky reprimanded.

“I delivered him to the evacuation area, Sarge,” he responded, indignant, “You didn’t tell me this guy was a slippery fella.”

“He did his job,” Steve assured, face reddening with embarrassment. “I also have a job to do though.”

They stared at him expectantly.

Steve ducked his head. “Uh, to be precise, it’s my _first_ _day_ on the job, so I don’t have any identification yet.”

“You a cop?” Dugan prompted.

“Private investigator, actually.”

Murmurs of understanding rumbled through the band of men. Bucky crossed his arms, watching Steve curiously. “Who are you tracking?”

“That’s classified.”

Bucky sighed, dropping it for the time being. They still had to get the evidence back for analysis. Seeing as his company was private, the sniper equipment they found would be turned over to government authorities. It would be a hassle if they didn’t release it into the possession of the NYPD immediately. “Alright, move out.”

Without hesitation, the Howling Commandos trudged back through the woods toward the mansion (thankfully Dum-Dum knew the way). Bucky nearly stomped on Steve’s discarded jacket, picking it up instead and dusting it off. “This is nice. You should take better care of it,” he remarked, tossing it to the blonde.

Steve caught it clumsily, appearing forlorn over the condition of not only the suit jacket, but also the rest of his dirt and sweat stained attire. He muttered a soft swear under his breath, but Bucky heard it.

Eyeing the man intently, he asked, “You got other suits, don’t you, Brooklyn?”

His hesitation was enough answer.

“Ah jeez. Stevie, what kind of PI doesn’t have a couple of nice suits for covert operations?” Bucky clapped him on the back, squeezing one of his shoulders fondly. “I know a dry cleaner who can get you a great deal. They’ve gotten some of the worst stains out of my clothes. I’m sure they could salvage your suit.”

“Thanks.” His voice was small, a slightly stubborn edge to it.

Deciding that both of them had had a long enough night, Bucky didn’t push for more conversation. Besides, it looked like Steve was deep in thought already, his footsteps heavier and messier. Visibility increased the closer they got to the mansion, and Bucky took the chance to study his new (sort of) friend. Of course, he had gotten an eyeful earlier, but now he could see what that tuxedo was hiding.

Steve was built, but definitely not battle-hardened. His muscles were carefully sculpted, outlined by the creased white oxford. Those narrow hips and toned thighs (which Bucky probably liked a little too much) weren’t hastily developed in a boot camp with the help of supplements. When his eyes trailed back up to the man’s face, he noted how the bones were almost delicate. Bucky wondered if Steve had been a little guy at one point.

“Daydreaming, Sarge?” Dum-Dum whispered, nudging his CO in the ribs.

Bucky shrugged. “Just admiring the view.”

 


	3. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

 

Steve didn’t fall asleep until daybreak. Thankfully, Mr. Wilson had asked for him to come in around 1:00PM, meaning he could sleep in. What had kept him awake was the tingling fear and adrenaline that the Soldier had indeed been on the premises. They had probably missed each other by hours – a full day at most. He was too anxious to close his eyes and when he did nod off, flashes of tangled hair and masked features flooded the darkness to jolt him back up.

When thoughts of the Winter Soldier faded, they were quickly replaced by phantom feelings of Bucky’s hands holding him down and a low Brooklyn drawl teasing him. Steve would blush so hard at the mere memory that he would roll over and wish he didn’t have the modesty of a goddamn virgin maiden.

It wasn’t like sex and dating were beneath him. They had just been moved to the backburner in the midst of his growing obsession with the Soldier. Steve winced at his internal admissions, eyes trailing over to the growing wall of shame. To be perfectly fair though, most people wouldn’t tackle such an important issue unless their lives depended on it. He had made a career and hobby out of hunting down a serial killer. That had to be righteous and just…right?

Or was it perceived as crazy and toxic?

Someone had to do it and the only difference between that “someone” and Steve was a badge and some government credentials. At least now he was employed as a private investigator. Bucky and his Howling Commandos (Steve still had no idea why that was their name) were clearly accepting of his profession. Then again, they were similarly in the business of privatized security and law enforcement.

When Steve woke up officially around half-past ten, his first thought was to check if he still had the dry cleaner’s card Bucky had passed him before parting ways. Groaning, he sat up and winced at the pain in his legs. Climbing trees couldn’t have taken that great of a toll, right?

He gingerly walked to the full-length mirror hanging on wall beside his mattress, turning around to examine the finger shaped bruises on his upper thighs. Only a small part of him had seriously thought Bucky would leave marks. This was ridiculous though. How could anyone, military or not, have such brutal strength in a single arm?

Steve grimaced, suddenly wishing he had Bucky’s contact information so he could chew him out. Actually, he kind of wished there was someone who would listen to him vent. Not Tony, though. He would just crack ill-timed jokes and make it worse. Probably something about sex and Steve being an 80-year old virgin.

Checking out the back of his neck next, Steve was perplexed to find nothing. So maybe Bucky had only been rough on his legs? That would make sense. It could cause permanent damage if he manhandled Steve’s neck.

Although he took a shower after getting home last night, it felt like he was covered in a layer of gross. Hopping into the small shower stall, Steve let the hot water scald his tense muscles, forcing them to relax. He had replayed the images of the sniper rifle on Dr. Xavier’s property over and over again, trying to understand why it was an automated assassination. It seemed out of character for the Soldier to do something like leaving a kill to chance. What if someone else had spontaneously gotten on stage? How could he have ensured that Erik Lehnsherr would be front and center, standing _exactly_ where the event coordinator dictated him to go?

The more he thought about it, the more he reluctantly chalked it up to being someone other than the Winter Soldier. It would have been really great to gain a concrete lead on his top priority criminal, but if the pieces didn’t fit, they just didn’t fit.

Steve dressed carefully, choosing a softer pair of navy slacks that wouldn’t irritate his bruises. Tucking a white polo into his pants, he buckled the belt and slipped on a pair of loafers. His hair was combed away from his face, still slightly wet from the shower. Cracking his rather large window open, he tested the air, noting that it would be a humid day. Wearing anything heavier than a polo would probably kill him.

Checking his watch, he figured there would be enough time to swing by Bucky’s dry cleaner who was located only a few blocks from the Falcon Agency, and then grab lunch before heading into the office. There were a lot of things he needed to report to Mr. Wilson and as their meeting time grew closer, Steve grew more anxious.

The last thing he wanted to do was overstep his rank and make investigation suggestions which sounded theoretically plausible, but were obviously idiotic in practice. Steve mindlessly collected his ruined suit into a clothing bag, zipping it up and tossing it over one shoulder as he headed out.

At this hour, the subways heading into the city proper were still empty. When he transferred lines, he was almost positive that the lunch rush would be in full force.

Steve ambled up to the dry cleaning shop at noon, heart catching in his throat when he saw a familiar broad-shouldered, dark haired figure leaning over the counter and chatting amiably with the worker. _Oh god._ He didn’t know why this had caught him off guard. It was obvious that Bucky would stop by considering he also dirtied his tuxedo and had recommended the place. Steve had simply figured they would miss each other.

“Welcome!” the shop owner called, peering over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hello…,” Steve smiled awkwardly as Bucky turned around and broke into a wide grin.

Pushing away from the counter, he stepped aside to allow Steve through. “How are you doing?” he asked conversationally, but the undercurrent of concern came through.

“Fine,” the blonde sighed, rubbing his forehead as he passed the clothing bag over the counter. He explained what he needed to the dry cleaner, paid the fees, and received a receipt with a pick-up date and time. By the time he turned around, Bucky was still standing there, casually typing away on his phone, clearly waiting for Steve.

Why was this man so damn attractive? It wasn’t fair. Steve tried not to leer, but it was difficult. Bucky’s long sleeve shirt was stretched taut across his arms and chest, leaving little to the imagination. Strangely, he wore a glove on his left hand. Steve brushed over that point as his eyes trailed lower, lingering on the lean curve of a hip where dark wash jeans hugged him close.

“You good?”

Steve’s gaze fluttered back up, noting with growing embarrassment that Bucky had long since put his phone down and had been watching him with a smug smirk. _Smooth, Rogers. First person you find attractive in years, and you check him out like a creep._ “Sorry. Yeah, I’m good,” he stammered, “Did you want to talk?”

“Last night was a little messy,” Bucky began, placing his gloved hand at the small of Steve’s back, steering him toward the door with an easy smile, “I’m glad we ran into each other here. I was wondering if I camped out around the dry cleaner you might show up.”

That broke the dam of awkward. Steve laughed, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s hard shoulder. “You’re such a schmuck, Bucky Barnes.”

His eyes widened in mock-offense. “Now listen here, punk, I’m just trying my best to make nice and you’re calling me all sorts of things.” Bucky’s fingers brushed the other man’s waist, pressing them closer as they strolled down the sidewalk.

They were eye level, faces coming too close each time one of them wanted to say something. Steve tried to ignore it, but also didn’t have the heart or desire to move the hand that was slowly curling around him. It was such an easy, flirtatious move that had been much better executed than his unfortunate gawking minutes earlier. “What kind of nice are you trying to make?” Steve gave the gloved hand firmly gripping his waist a very pointed look.

Bucky didn’t move it, instead grinning sweetly. Under the noon sun, his pale eyes were particularly crystalline, shimmering with humor and fun. “Well, I was thinking we could exchange numbers – purely because us Brooklyn natives need to band together,” he stated, nodding assuredly. “And then I could pick you up from…,” Bucky looked at Steve expectantly.

“Work,” the blonde offered, amused.

“Ah, yes, work,” Bucky agreed, as if he had thought of it. He gave Steve a little tug until they were knocking together with each step, legs brushing together. “So I’ll pick you up from work…tonight?” He paused, waiting for confirmation.

Steve gave a small nod.

“Perfect!” Bucky exclaimed, “We’ll take a stroll down to my favorite hole in the wall, share a few drinks and burgers, and call it a real Brooklyn Bros night. And then, like true bros, I’ll ask you back to my place so we can reminisce platonically about our favorite Brooklyn joints before having a nice sleepover in my bed. Sound good?”

Now Steve really was laughing. He pushed out of Bucky’s arms, fingertips lingering over the leather gloved hand which had graciously released him. The gentle smile spreading that gorgeous face was almost enough to melt Steve from the inside out. This was ridiculous though. How could he have hit it off with someone – a complete stranger – so easily?

“Alright, how about I propose a plan?” Steve offered. He noted that they were a block away from the agency, deciding to halt their progress before they hit it.

“What could be better than my carefully laid evening?” Bucky pouted.

“Lots of things.”

“Hey!”

Steve shushed him with a laugh. “Okay, hear me out. How about we go for lunch right now and if you’re a real good bro, we go with your plan tonight?”

This time, he really did look sad. Bucky sighed heavily, shoulder slumping. “As great as that sounds, I’m actually due back to the office…,” he paused, checking his watch, “well, ten minutes ago. So you’ll have to suffer through lunch without me.” Bucky flashed a smirk, to which Steve rolled his eyes. “But tonight is still an option. We don’t have to do any platonic cuddling or apartment visits. Just dinner would be a fine time.”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as platonic cuddling,” Steve remarked, chuckling.

“All cuddling begins relatively tame,” Bucky corrected, before adding, “it’s up to the parties involved to decide whether or not cuddling becomes a lot more fun.” His eyes dragged over Steve in a way that reminded him of the previous evening. _Fuck, this man should be illegal._

“I think I’ll wait,” he responded, trying to will away the blush rising up his neck. Clearing his throat, he said, “But I would never turn down food and company...if you’re still interested?”

Bucky’s features softened, the feral edge of his flirting easing. “Yeah, Stevie,” he tugged out his phone, passing it over to the surprised blonde, “I’ll shoot you a text immediately, alright? Save my number and message me when you finish working.”

Fumbling with the touchscreen, he entered his information while trying to ignore Bucky’s intent gaze in his peripheral vision. “There,” Steve breathed, handing the phone over, meeting the other man’s eyes for the first time in about a minute.

Bucky’s ungloved fingers brushed over Steve’s as he passed the phone back. A warm smile played across his features. “You’re real cute, Brooklyn. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” the blonde reminded, hiding his awkwardness with a laugh.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, turning to the street. “I guess I shouldn’t make the Howlies wait any longer.” Bucky hailed a cab, effortlessly. _Seriously, what a guy._ Glancing back at Steve, he grinned widely. “Don’t forget about me tonight, alright, punk?”

“Same to you, jerk.”

At the time, neither of them realized that some dates aren’t meant to be fulfilled.

 


	4. Missed Date

As promised, Steve received a message almost instantly. It was short and sweet:

**Hey, Brooklyn. Text me when you’re done!**

He responded while waiting in line at the nearby deli, suddenly feeling fifteen again and messaging his big, dumb crush. The conversation ended there, though, and Steve had a feeling Bucky really was busy.

It made sense, this guy was personally requested to run security at one of Charles Xavier’s events. Granted, things had gone horribly awry, but it was still clear that Bucky and his “Howlies” were a force to be reckoned with. Steve couldn’t deny how much more attractive that made Bucky. Strength, resilience, and practical experience were wonderful qualities, especially to someone like Steve who so desperately desired to impact the world.

Ten minutes to 1:00PM, he strolled into the Falcon Agency, checking himself in the bathroom before knocking on Mr. Wilson’s closed office door. The agency was situated on the fourth floor of a modest high rise that was probably built in the mid-1900s. Remnants of floral wallpaper and outdated color schemes spotted the building. Steve dusted his pants off once more, trying to get rid of invisible dust as he rapped against the door.

A second later, Mr. Wilson called him in.

Steve pushed the door open, eyes immediately finding Dr. Xavier who sat in front of Mr. Wilson’s large desk. Lines of exhaustion were etched into his aging face, but otherwise the regal air about him remained. “Mr. Wilson,” Steve greeted first, before offering a small nod to Dr. Xavier, “Sir. I just want to apologize for last night—”

“—Don’t fret, Steven,” Dr. Xavier interrupted, not unkindly. “No one could have predicted such an elaborate plot.” He shook his head, clearly still disturbed by the loss of his old friend. “I am thankful for your cooperative efforts with James Barnes and his team. They were up quite late last night going over the security footage, and thanks to your discovery of the sniper equipment, they were able to narrow a difficult search.”

“Dr. Xavier was in the middle of telling me about your amazing tree climbing abilities,” Mr. Wilson mused, but his eyes remained serious, “You really should’ve mentioned your acrobat skills on that resume.”

“It was a hunch,” Steve quickly stated, feeling uneasy. It would do him no good to take any credit for a job well done. In light of Lehnsherr’s death, how could Steve feel like he had done anything other than fail? “I still didn’t do what I was supposed to.”

Mr. Wilson rolled his eyes. “Look, kid, I didn’t give you any specific details and if I knew there was an actual, honest-to-God, assassin in your midst, I wouldn’t have sent you.” Shaking his head, he offered a gentle frown. “Relative to how most first missions go, I’d say you did what you could do, and made up for what you couldn’t do.”

“I agree whole heartedly,” Dr. Xavier affirmed, nodding his head, fingers laced over his lap. “You are not responsible for Erik’s passing.” A flash of guilt. Steve swallowed a protest at the apparent blame Charles Xavier was placing on himself. The professor cleared his throat softly, looking up at Steve. “I’m here today to ask that you continue investigations. Although I am unable to provide much more than the security footage and access to my estate, I will do all that I can in my power to bring about justice.”

“Understood, sir,” Mr. Wilson stated solemnly. Turning to Steve, he continued, “Tell me what you thought of the sniper set-up. Did it recall any particular criminal’s patterns?”

Steve took a small amount of pride in Mr. Wilson’s confidence that he would have the analytical prowess to profile a criminal. “Since the shot was so precise, I immediately considered the Winter Soldier to be responsible,” he began, “but after considering that the Soldier has never left his kills to chance, it didn’t seem likely that he was responsible. Leaving his prey to an automated timer doesn’t fall in line with all of his other assassinations.”

“Who does it seem like?” Dr. Xavier asked curiously, openly impressed by Steve.

He shook his head. “I’ve never seen this pattern. It’s almost like someone was trying to replicate the Soldier’s machine-like precision. But I’ll pursue the case. There aren’t many criminals who could have done this, so it shouldn’t take long to produce a list of suspects.” Steve paused. “Isn’t this more of a job for the police, though?”

“I’m sure they’re doing their best,” the professor dismissed, eyes sparkling with intrigue as he studied the young blonde investigator. “However, you seem to have quite the eye for this, Steven. I would like to enlist your help whether or not the state authorities are conducting their own search.”

“He’ll start immediately.” Mr. Wilson nodded at Steve. “Natasha just returned from a case. She can help you with preliminary research and finding some leads. Her office is at the end of the hall.”

Steve didn’t move.

Mr. Wilson cocked a brow. “Something you need?”

“I was just wondering if you…well, if your lead was any good from last night.” Steve looked down uncomfortably, feeling like he was crossing a line for asking. No matter what though, he wanted to know if maybe the Soldier had made an appearance.

Mr. Wilson shook his head. “It was a dud.” His eyes were shifting though, scrutinizing his newest employee. Steve had a feeling his boss had more to say, but Dr. Xavier was still present.

Wordlessly, he turned and left the office, going in search of Natasha Romanoff.

***

Bucky flipped through messages as the taxi chugged dutifully through traffic. Messages from the Howlies were interspersed with emails from old and potentially new clients. He read each of them carefully, very much aware of the security firm’s ridiculous good fortune. It had been a pie in the sky dream at first when all of them met at the VA hospital five years ago.

He and Dugan had been in the same unit, but the others came from all over. They had started out just chatting and attending the same group therapy sessions, but at some point it evolved into spending time together outside of the hospital. Before Bucky knew it, they were bar-hopping buddies calling themselves the Howling Commandos into the dark streets of New York City. All of them had their separate issues to deal with, but all veterans go through a healing process after service. Although Bucky couldn’t speak for the others, he knew in his heart that having this particular rag tag group of friends reminded him of the better parts of army life.

The camaraderie. The trust. The vulgar jokes. The fierce loyalty.

Bucky felt safest around them – and not just because all of them were just as paranoid and highly trained as himself. That was merely a perk. Steve’s foolhardy image flashed through his mind, bringing a grimace to Bucky’s face. Perhaps if their date went well, he could slowly absorb the man into the Howlies for protection purposes.

It terrified him to think of a civilian _willingly_ getting anywhere near danger. Maybe it was because of his experience with screaming and fleeing non-combatants, but Bucky firmly believed Steve had no business doing something like hunting an assassin. Why did private investigators even exist? It was just reckless nosy civilians butting into business better dealt with by trained professionals. Furthermore, didn’t private eyes normally deal with affairs and low key stalking?

Why was a gorgeous, green horn like Steve snooping around high profile arenas like Charles Xavier’s parties? – Not that the parties in themselves were dangerous. Rather, it seemed rather unreasonable for someone so inexperienced to be going undercover so quickly.

Bucky sighed. It wasn’t like Steve would be giving him any answers soon. The guy was stubborn, to say the least.

His phone vibrated in his lap, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts. Looking at, the number was blocked but something tingled in the back of his skull. Automatically, he connected the call. “Hello?”

Without preamble, words started rattling out: “желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать…”

Bucky stuttered, his head pounding, vision blurring. “Рассвет. Печь. Девять…”

Metal clamped down around his mind, as if sealing his conscience into a tight lidded box. A gasp caught in his throat, prosthetic arm shaking as it gripped the door handle. “Добросердечный. возвращение на родину…”

Bucky blinked and swallowed, but couldn’t see. It felt like someone had blindfolded him. “Один. грузовой вагон.”

The low hum of traffic and life fizzled away.

The Winter Soldier’s eyes flickered open. He spoke low and throaty into the speaker, “Ready to comply.”

***

Natasha was a character. Steve found her highly intimidating and amusing all at once. Her jokes were sharp and her gaze sharper. They spent the majority of the afternoon digging through databases and at one point, she sent him down to the archives. He ended up spending half an hour suppressing an asthma attack from the sheer amount of dust down there.  

In terms of leads though, there were few to none. Steve had the make and model of the sniper rifle, but as expected, it wasn’t a registered weapon. The various other equipment had manufacturing labels, and when Steve made a few calls to them, it was clear none of them had the capabilities or time to give him the information he wanted. Even if they did provide the list of distributors, Steve couldn’t imagine going to every store and asking about who recently bought a timer. The assassin had been clever. The timer was nothing special, but after several modifications, he had made it a functional tool for killing. Point being, the timer could be bought by anyone for any reason – usually non-lethal – and that gave him too large of a list to dig through.

Steve chewed on the top of a pen, frowning hard at the photos he had taken of the sniper’s set-up. He wished someone with a higher quality camera had been around. His photos were sufficient, but not excellent.

“Hey, it’s about closing time,” Natasha remarked from her place on the couch. Her office was hands-down better than Mr. Wilson’s and that seemed odd. Perhaps she had merely furnished things better? Steve couldn’t tell, seeing as how he himself didn’t have an official space yet. It didn’t seem like quite the right time to ask about it though.

“Hmm?” Steve muttered, looking up at her.

She smiled briefly, as if amused by his determination to work into the night. “It’s already going on 7PM, Steve. I appreciate your enthusiasm for the case, but it’s also your first official day on the job. Take it slow or else you’ll burn out too soon.”

He jumped out of his chair, panicked. A curse slipped past his lips, and he checked his phone, equal parts relieved and worried that Bucky hadn’t messaged him. Would he be angry that Steve was taking forever? Or maybe he thought Steve stood him up? Oh god. He tried to shake away the worry by fretting with the various papers on the desk.

“I forgot I had dinner plans,” Steve explains, frazzled as he moved around the room, replacing things he had moved during research.

Natasha just watched him closely, but didn’t comment.

He checked his pockets for wallet and keys, hurrying out of the room with a “Sorry Natasha! I’m going to head out now.”

“See you tomorrow,” she sounded as if she was laughing, but Steve didn’t check to make sure.

When his feet hit the sidewalk, he was dialing Bucky’s number, heart beating loudly in his chest. It immediately went to voicemail. Steve’s shoulders fell. His worst fears were very rapidly rising up his throat like bile. This was pathetic. He finally found a sweet, charming guy and he was already messing things up. They hadn’t even gone on a date yet, and Steve was setting a very poor precedence.

“Hey, Bucky,” he breathed out when the voicemail began recording, “I’m so sorry for the time. I completely understand if you’re not feeling up to dinner anymore, but just give me a call or a text when you get this. …Also, thanks again for earlier. About the dry cleaner. Yeah. Okay, bye.”

He hung up and started mentally playing back his message. Walking briskly down the street, Steve ducked his head as he continued mulling over his behavior. It would be perfectly reasonable for Bucky to not give him a respond anytime soon. He hoped for the best, but expected the worst.

What he didn’t expect was no response the next day. Or the day after. Or even a week later.

Steve had left two more voicemails and four text messages.

Two weeks pass.

The third voicemail doesn’t even go through. Instead, Steve receives an automated message stating the phone line has been disconnected completely.

 


End file.
